


it's not about reciprocation (it's just all about me)

by streimel



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streimel/pseuds/streimel
Summary: He pushes off the boards, letting the puck edge away on the ice, when Sid finally speaks. "Get off the ice, Olli."He could be defiant. At least, he likes to think he could. He grew up fighting back to two older brothers pushing him around, yet when Sid tells him to jump, he falls over his feet to ask "how high?"





	it's not about reciprocation (it's just all about me)

**Author's Note:**

> this is some pretty self-indulgent porn just because there needs to be more SidOlli in the world
> 
> there's definitely some slight D/s going on here
> 
> it's 2 in the morning, sorry I didn't even edit this ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The puck pings off the crossbar, flying back past him. The sound echoes in the empty rink; all he hears is the reverberation, the sound of his skates cutting into the ice, Flower laughing at him, in his head.

He circles back at the blue line, just catching the sight of someone standing inside the hallway, leaning on the wall. He skates backwards, toward the net, and shoots the puck down the ice, as if he were killing off a penalty. The puck circles around the boards, coming back toward the middle, and he catches it on right on the tape, bringing it in as he heads for the boards, stopping to grab his Gatorade.

It's Sid in the hallway. In a way, it's a surprise and it isn't. It's not crazy for Sid to hang around, necessarily. He tries not to overthink it, squirting a stream of whatever the hell blue is supposed to taste like into his mouth from the nozzle as Sid watches. He doesn't say a word, but neither does Sid, at least for the moment.

He pushes off the board, letting the puck edge away on the ice, when Sid finally speaks. "Get off the ice, Olli."

He could be defiant. At least, he likes to think he could. He grew up fighting back to two older brothers pushing him around, yet when Sid tells him to jump, he falls over his feet to ask "how high?" He knew this would happen, the moment he got drafted in Pittsburgh, not even 18 years old yet - the first time he met Sid, he'd had to bite his tongue to not ask for his autograph. Almost five years later, he still feels that flutter in his stomach when Sid looks at him (he tells himself it's the awe, of playing with the best player of this generation, though he knows that's not really it.)

He balances on his edges, sliding his skates back and forth while Sid waits. Sid's not irritated, not yet, but he knows if he turns around, tells him five more minutes, that'll change. As if Sid knows what he's thinking, he raises his chin, just a little, sending him a leveling look. He drops his gaze, moving toward the door. Sid is gone before he reaches it.

The room is almost empty. Hags gives him that look as he comes in from the hall, the look that says "you know practice ended almost an hour ago, right?" He shrugs, dropping into his stall, and Hags slings his bag over his shoulder, throwing a "see ya" his way as he heads toward the parking lot. He listens for a moment; no one's in the shower, no one's in the room. When he gets to the exercise room for his cool down, it's empty as well. He stops in the lounge for a water. Everyone's gone. He wonders if Sid's still around when he hits the shower.

When he gets back to the room, Sid's bag is open in his stall, though Sid himself is nowhere to be seen. He looks at the pile of clothes folded next to him, debating. He slips on the boxers, but leaves the rest of it where it's at. He takes a short walk around, right into the hallway, looking left then right, and closes the door as he comes back into the room.

He grabs a hand towel, lays it on the ground, and kneels. Sid will come back eventually, usually after he makes sure everyone is gone. While the idea is thrilling, Sid doesn't quite want to be caught in a compromising situation; he wants the prospect, not the reality. He doesn't care, either way, but this is for Sid, not for him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, maybe five minutes, maybe fifteen. He waits, sitting back on his heels, hands on his knees, eyes turned down, until Sid comes back. The door to the room opens, but he doesn't look up. In his line of vision, he can see legs, still damp, the edge of a white towel as it hits right around Sid's shins - he was in the aquatic room, then. Sid steps just inside, letting the door close, but he doesn't move closer.

"I wasn't telling you to get off the ice because I wanted-" Sid starts, then pauses, as if thinking better of it. "I just didn't want you to wear yourself out."

It's probably at least half true; it's not the first time Sid has intervened, or gotten someone else to intervene, worried about him pushing himself too hard. But even if he weren't trying to push for this, Sid at least hoped for it - he wouldn't hang around this long, nearly two hours after everyone else left, for nothing. He could say that, but he's not here to disagree with Sid. He just cocks his head to the side, still looking at the floor, and waits for what comes next.

Sid walks by his stall first, hanging up his towel. He walks behind him, footsteps muted against the carpet, but he doesn't follow him. He knows Sid is looking, just to look, and kicks himself for putting on the boxers. Sid gets closer, brushing fingertips across the crown of his head, and then twists a strand of damp hair between two fingers.

"You're such a good boy, Olli. You always listen to me."

It's impossible not to react, but that's what Sid wants anyway. The low burn in his belly blossoms along his hips, down into his cock, tightening his balls as it lights him up inside. Sid twists his hair a little more roughly, and he shivers, leaning into it, wanting more. Sid flattens a whole palm across his head and then pulls, not too hard, but enough, and he finally breaks, whining softly.

The first time, when he was still a rookie, Sid had got down on his knees with him, held his face in his hands and asked if he really wanted to do this, said there was no shame in saying no, for any reason. Now, even after all this time, Sid still waits for him, never wanting to take what isn't wholeheartedly offered.

Sid lets go, walking around to stand in front of him, a few feet away. He kneels in the middle of the logo, sacrilegious as it is, because that's what Sid has asked of him. It had taken some mental rewiring to get used to the idea of breaking the tradition, and he still thinks it would be more embarrassing for someone to walk in on him so casually defiling the logo, as opposed to getting on his knees for Sid Crosby - at the least the latter would make sense to most people. But this is their routine (and he's heard worse stories about things that have occurred on this logo, anyway).

"What do you want, Olli?" Sid asks, looking like he would be ready to step away at the first command, even as he stands naked and throbbing before him. There's a bead of moisture right on the tip of Sid's cock, and he wants so badly to taste him, to taste all of him. He looks up for the first time, meeting Sid's eye, and the look he gets back is fond, but unyielding; Sid wants an answer before he makes any move.

" _You_."

Sid's stoicness cracks, but it doesn't shatter. Sid's eyes flutter half-shut as he moves forward, reaching out a hand to cup his face, and he nuzzles into it, placing a kiss into Sid's palm. Sid thumbs at his bottom lip, looking down at him under hooded eyes, and he parts his mouth, tongue poking out over his lip as he opens himself in invitation.

Sid's grip is rough when he holds his jaw, tilting his head up slightly as Sid lines himself up. "Such a good boy, but you know how to suck dick so good," Sid muses, and his moan is muted by Sid sliding between his lips. He grabs at Sid's hip, and Sid eases up - there are plenty of times he's content, even eager, to have Sid fuck his mouth, but he wants to be in control today, and Sid goes along, lightly placing one hand on his head and letting him lead.

He starts off slow, getting one hand around the base of Sid and pumping while he swallows down the rest. Sid isn't huge, but he isn't small either; he can get a lot of him, but not all of it. Distractedly, he thinks about how much better his ass it as taking Sid, about how easily he opens up for him, but it's not the time or place for that, now. Sid's fingers twitch against his head, slightly, and it's enough to give away how keyed up Sid already is - he's probably been thinking of this for the last hour, at least, maybe even woke up this morning thinking about it, and Sid's so ready to be serviced, he knows it's not going to last long.

He sits back a little, hand still on the base of Sid, and opens his mouth, letting Sid's cockhead rest right on his lip. When he looks up at Sid, Sid's pupils are already a dark, inky black, but they bloom when his closes his lips right over the head, sucks once lightly, then hard. He throws a hand up, holding Sid's thigh when his knees buckle as he sucks, and Sid runs a thumb around where his lips are stretched, murmuring a soft " _holy fuck_ " to no one in particular.

He gets back into it, getting into a rhythm of swallowing Sid to the back of his throat until his eyes water and his nose starts to run. He gets a hand down, rolling Sid's sack, and they're dripping wet from saliva running down Sid's cock. When he takes a peek up at Sid again, Sid looks blissed out, mouth open in almost shock of sensation as he keeps cupping him.

Now that he's open, it's easier to take Sid all the way down. He can smell the acrid mix of his saliva and the faint leftover sweat from practice not washed away by the whirpool as he gets Sid all the down, nose pressing against the thatch of hair at the base of him. Sid's chanting a litany of praise he's only half listening to, mixed in with his name recited again and again as if it were holy, but he's concentrating on how fucking good Sid feels in his mouth, how soft and fleshy the head of Sid is even against his tongue, how he can feel the blood pulsing through Sid's dick when his lips trace over the thick veins of him. He closes his eyes and just _feels_ Sid.

Sid bucks into his mouth, and he opens his jaw even more, ready to see Sid through to the end. Sid's almost mindless now, hand wrenched into his hair as he begins to throb in his mouth, and he barely hears Sid's " _oh god, Olli_ " as the blood rushes in his ears when he feels the first spurt of cum hitting the back of his throat. He frantically shoves the waistband of his boxers below his balls, still holding on to Sid with one hand and beginning to fist himself with the other as Sid's dick stops jerking in his mouth, and he grips Sid's hip tight when he goes to pull away.

"No, please-" he whines, needing Sid right here, just for another second, just to get there, and Sid looks intent, stepping even closer as he rubs his softening dick against his cheek.

"Do what you need, Olli," Sid says, and that's a command, one that makes his toes curl into the carpet as he chases his own ending.

Without thinking, he turns his head, seeking out Sid's cockhead again, now soft, and he suctions his lips around it instinctively, balls tightening as it slips back into his mouth. Sid gasps in surprise, yanking his hair too roughly in shock more than punishment, and that gets him over the last hurdle, Sid still bobbing in his mouth as he cums all over the towel under his knees, feeling is pulled from his body in great, heavy spurts. He sits back limply, breathing hard, and smiles when he looks at Sid, watching him carefully from above.

"And you thought the ice would wear me out, eh?" he laughs, and Sid rolls his eyes.


End file.
